Postlude: After Pike, Before Flight
by certainlyjim
Summary: Jim saw his Captain— saw the body of Christopher Pike; this is what occurs between that night and that morning. pre-slash k/s.


a/n: un'beta'd, really this feels astoundingly ooc so i'm just apologizing in advance  
*inspired when i was looking for screencaps and noticed jim was letting go a single (manly) tear before he answered spock's comm!  
**regarding the preslash tag,, i think,, a queerplatonic relationship would also fit, but i;m not v confident in the varying definitions of a qpr, so,,,

* * *

Firemen form a continuous fluid line of hardhats and heavy uniforms, escorted by 'fleet personal, as they make their way to areas burning black smoke and bending the steel. Jim leans on the railing overlooking the sixteen floors to the ground floor, and watches the line, watches more 'fleet hovercars swerve into the crowded parking lot, blowing cracked glass and splintered steel, watches the ambulances and medics scurrying— well, not scurrying, trained too well for that, but it's a close fit. Three captains dead, four commanders; too many. He slides his hands over the cold railing, bringing them together in front of him, taking a breath through his nose, before he bends with a gag, forehead thudding the railing as he squeezes his eyes shut. He can hear the mummer of talk behind him, can distantly hear it below, can hear the elevators swooshing up and down, can feel the singes in his dress uniform. But the stench of burnt meat, laying there to rot under thin plastic, in two small rows behind him, he doesn't think about it, doesn't or can't, he doesn't think about it. He straightens, but he won't face the other way, should check in with the people organizing the whole thing, he should be doing something.

He tugs at his dress greys as he turns sharply to his right, eyes looking to the left, and the entrance to the stairs, where he spots an Andorian in 'fleet med blues, he doesn't look to the right. His dress greys are tugged again before he snarls under his breath and unbuttons them, crushing them with a fist, he walks towards the Andorian. The Andorian glances up at him, blue fingers quick on their patient below, and Jim asks if they know where a temporary command post has been set up, and is given the thirteenth floor in the east room. Jim thanks them, and takes a step to the elevator, when he glances down the stairs to his right and stiffens, jerking his head forwards, jaw clenching.

He sees Spock eventually look up as he crests the stairs, 'Commander?'

Jim watches his dirty reflection in the warped doors, for a moment, before turning to him, with a dim smile that doesn't belong, 'Commander Spock, what are you doing back up here?'

'I am attempting to locate Commander Rae'iefs, there is paperwork for her to complete.' he pauses, arms resting at his back, and there's blood on his dress greys. He moves closer to him, 'May I ask of you the same, Commander?'

Jim knows the paperwork is for Captain Boofour, because as soon as Rae'iefs completes it, it'll be Captain Rae'iefs. He crushes his dress greys more in his fist, and sees Spock's eyes flicker down, 'Ah- I never left, was helping security, and the medics.'

Spock looks behind him, at the two short rows, then levels him a stare, 'You have not been treated for any injuries.'

There wasn't any question within ten yards of that sentence, dammit, Spock. 'I never said that, Commander, and besides I'm perfectly fine.'

Jim splays his arms, sees them reflected in the elevator doors, that haven't opened, for Spock's benefit, 'I wasn't in the room that long— you were. Have you been checked out?'

He's changing the subject, being accuse-ive, and he doesn't care.

Red light flashes across the room, highlighting Spock's face and eyes for a moment, before they both turn to see a helicopter sweeping along outside, bringing the broken glass, upturned tables, blood, into contrast a moment before it moves on. Jim closes his eyes against the blurred blindness of looking directly into its light, and when he opens them, Spock is closer, still out of touching distance.

'I have.' his brows furrow slightly, 'There is a …nurse at the base medcenter who made certain I was optimal. Commander Kirk, I request that you walk ten steps in this direction.'

Jim blinks at the commanded nonsequitor, 'What— why?'

'You are favoring your left leg; however, I cannot make a devise conclusion because, I have not seen you mobile.'

Jim finally faces him, 'I don't think I'm fav— dammit!'

He'd made it four steps before he limped, almost coming to his knees before speck. speck levers at his shoulders, keeping him steady, head bent, looking down.

'Commander...' he says.

Spock's hands are still at his shoulders, and Jim shakes them, but the hands remain, 'Yeah?'

'Commander,' Spock repeats, 'Jim, please look down at your right hand.'

Spock leans back, and Jim shifts a shoulder from his grip looking down. He sees his hand, and he blinks, and he brings it up to waist level. And he unclenches his fingers from the dark wood of the silver headed cane in his grasp. He doesn't— the blurred blindness of looking straight into light comes again, and there's no light, and he doesn't remember when he picked up P— his cane. He remembers seeing it laying askew amongst debris, he remembers helping security moving the bodies out. His palm lays flat and the cane rolls softly, and the ring next to it draws his attention, red indents on his skin surround it. He can still hear the loud metallic blast of tables fracturing against walls, and bodies burnt, and the cane eases closer to the tips of his fingers, and he sees Spock kneeling outside the meeting room, and the cane slips from his grasp.

'— ain Kirk. Jim!' Spock is lightly shaking him, has been shaking him, telling him to breathe, catching the rolling cane, so it won't crash to the floor.

Jim listens; he inhales loudly through his nose, chest hurting, hand curling around the ring he'd taken from pike. His hurting chest pounds under his skin, and now he feels the strain of his messed up ankle. He thinks it's from when he vaulted over that table, he gasps under Spock's hold, because Spock hasn't let him go.

'These uniforms are too tight for action, Spock.' he rushes out, under breath.

He feels Spock's hold tighten on his right shoulder, 'Pardon?'

He leans into the hand, letting his own fall back to his side, and realizing Spock has taken his dress top from him, he breathes, 'The— when Harrison…the table I jumped…over.'

He looks up to Spock, shoulder heaving dying down, and Spock, 'Ah, that is when you theorize you injured yourself.'

'Yeah, ' he huffs, looking down, and then back up with a frown, and his voice cracks as he says, ' I don't remember picking up his cane.'

Spock drops his hold and nods once, 'You are in shock.'

Says like it's no big deal, but Jim, incredulous, 'What? No, I'm not, I'm fine.'

'You were unaware of your injuries, and you are demonstrating a lack of distinction of material facts, Commander.' Spock says, eyes flickering with the movement of 'fleet personal around them. 'I would strongly advise going directly to the med post on the third floor.'

Jim stares at him, disassembling his words and frowning more, 'I said I'm fine.'

'If you will not, I will escort you.' Spock steps up to him, and both their reflections warp on the cracked windows.

It's not an offer, he can tell as much, and shifting slightly he winces, realizing his ankle is extremely swollen, and that he it'll be a pain to move, so, 'Fine, we're taking the 'lift, not the stairs.'

'Unfortunately, the turbolifts have been co-opted by emergency personal, and are not accessible.' Spock says, turning around to the stairs.

Jim takes half a step-limp, coming even with Spock, looking down the damn stairs, he scowls, 'Give me my damn uniform.'

Jim makes it two and half flights before his leg gives out on him, saved from breaking his nose by Spock bruising his armpit, and which Spock keeps doing until they reach the thirteen floor. Jim wheezes, leaning against the wall aside to the stairs, as Spock checks a wallcomm, and he sees the horizontal black of the cane Spock carries, and he tries to blur his sight, it doesn't work. so he closes his eyes, and bursts of phasercanon fire-redden the darkness of his lids, then he sees— he brings his forearm from the wall and leans into it, nose rubbing into the rough black of his undershirt— he sees bodies smoking in the ambient red, and the hovercopter veers in front of him because he's the one who brought it down, but he's not to the side of the cockpit and he can't see Harrison; he's standing in the conference room. He knows he wasn't there when Harrison went down, and sees he standing there so starkly, can feel the sweat trickling down, the moans around him.

He's so sure that when he turns, /he'll/ be right there to Jim's side, but when he turns the starkness he feels blurs and the darkness of his closed eyes comes again, and he feels the damp scratch of his undershirt against his eyelids.

'Jim.' and he feels Spock's hand clasping his left shoulder, like it never left, and looks up. Spock's lips thin, and his brows furrow slightly, 'I have been advised to find a place of rest for the night, on this floor. The admiralty do not wish any to leave the premises.'

Jim straightens, spock's hand stays on his shoulder, and hoarsly, 'Okay. Let's go.'

He turns to go, but Spock still hasn't let go, 'Jim…you are weeping.'

Softly, and Jim feels his thumb trace low over his cheek, feels the cool wetness he brushes away, and flinches away.

He jerks his arm up and scrubs at his face, 'Come on, let's go.'

He turns to the door, hand steadying him on the wall, and limps forth. He doesn't hear Spock, and he doesn't look back, hadn't known he was crying, hadn't felt his eyes water and spill over, but he feels the pressure between his eyes from after, and the drying tear lines over his cheeks are cold in the air passing him by. He shouldn't be crying. He's got more important things to be thinking of, about; a damn Commander doesn't waste time on emotional things, a Commander takes control of the situation and strategizes, coordinates subordinates, makes sure things run smoothly. Jim's gotta— he has a ship on his shoulders again. 'Fleets gonna want to reconvene the Captain's and Commander's meeting again, he has paperwork to fill, and— he pauses with a hand on the wall, just within the sensors of the door, and it beeps at him— Number One. He needs to tell Numb—

'Jim, you will have to talk about the events of tonight.' Spock says from behind, and Jim can just picture his shoulder-width stance and hands resting behind, 'It is considered healthy for the average human to talk of such things.'

'Yeah, well, neither of us are average humans, Spock.' Jim passes through the door into the sterile blue of the hallway and a constant stream of 'fleet people. 'Where'm I heading.'

'There is a secluded lounge eighteen feet to the left, room 113; it is unoccupied.'

Jim nods, takes a wide turn to the left, unbalancing slightly, before, from behind he feels Spock push him back, and leaves the pressure of his hand there as they make their way to the room.

The lounge is a corner meeting room, small enough that Jim thinks it was only used for storage or short meet ups, and the kitchenette is bare, cabinets empty; a foldable four person table shoved up against the back, makes room for three cots, already packed with passed out 'fleet people, their clothes tossed around, used as makeshift blankets, pillows. He looks back to Spock who stands behind him, and Spock lifts his chin to the back of the room, and turning, Jim sees a corner door, boxes blocking. They skirt the filled cots and Spock stares Jim down when he tries to move the boxes, until Jim lifts his hands in surrender, to watch Spock push the wall of boxes clear. Spock straightens, fingers moving over his dress jacket, as it falls open, and Jim turns to the wall window looking over the flash of ambulance lights and hovercopters. He can see the temporary blockades being set up around the building, the swellings of a noisy crowd, and he wonders if Number One is up, watching the news-holos, or sleeping late from dirt-side duties. He hopes Number One is passed out in bed; he hopes, because, it'll give him enough time to comm them, face to face. He knows he can't tell them in person, 'fleet stands in his way, and he can't find it in him to hack and run. His chin falls to his chest, and he sees the cane in his hand, as he squeezes it, and hears Spock shift behind.

'Jim, there is a cot within.' Jim turns, squinting into the dark room, asks why, and Spock, 'I believe the boxes were not originally in front of the doorway, and their resulting placement caused the door to close.'

'Fair enough.' Jim takes a step into the dark room, and sees the highlighted outline of a black cot, a small mound, probably a blanket or pillow.

He goes in further, bumps into a counter, hand splaying out to feel it and his way further in to the back of the room, where the floor to ceiling window shows the spray of outside city light, reflecting gold and red. He leans forwards, breath fogging the window a bit, and sees the debris field he closes his eyes against. And sees the conference room attack play rapid fire out in the dark.

'Jim?' Jim turns profile to Spock; who's moved closer to him, the edges of his features sharply highlighted by hazy gold and red, the rest of him shadowed, 'I will return momentarily.'

Jim adjusts his hold on his dress greys, 'You going somewhere?'

'Affirmative.' Spock answers, and Jim stares at him, but he doesn't offer an explanation.

'Okay, I'll…be here.' shrugging around the small room. He makes out Spock's shadowed nod, and watches him leave.

He stands there looking towards the door, sees it whoosh closed, and the room getting darker, before he turns back to the window, slumping against the tall cabinet to his left, knocking the cane's hilt against the window with a dull thud. He rubs his thumb over the smudged metal of hilt, and the edges of his sight blur, making him reach up and wipe his face. He pushes into the cabinet and dull aches spasm his ankle, reminding him he should take a load off, but he doesn't wanna sleep. He knows better. His shoulder shifts sideways across the cabinet, and he slides to the ground, knees bending in stiff dress pants, ankle giving out before he's ready, and he's hitting the ground, head butting the cabinet. He groans, rubbing at his sore head; knows now, he'd drink. Drink through numb lips and thirsty throat until the sun showed the bruises on his knuckles.

The cane rolls over his cocked knee, and he remembers when— his eyebrows pucker, squeezing his eyes shut, tight fists— when Pike took him for a night out. To an upscale— by his standards, because his standards weren't standards, so, shut up, Jim— bar two miles from 'fleet ground, in celebration of inheriting the Enterprise. Pike was still in the chair, but he kept the cane across his lap, as a reminder, he said.

When Jim asked, he answered; you'll figure it out, son.

Later, when the dark hue of night was changing to daybreak, they had to call a hover-taxi. It was one of the spare moments Jim was dirt-side, and right now he wishes for more; a small part of him still wants to drink, something he hasn't done since he got the Enterprise. Something he hasn't done because Bones makes him deal 'healthily' with his 'feelings'. But with the security barricade down below, no one who wasn't here before can get in, so he could if he wanted. He looks halfheartedly through the darkness of the room for the replicator, because synthehol counts as a drink, even if it's like gross water. He stops looking when the door whooshes open and Spock steps in, shoulders stiffer than when he left.

He watches Spock look towards the empty cot, pause, then turn to the window, 'Jim.'

'Spock.'

'You are not occupying the cot.'

Jim bounces the end of the cane on the ground, pointing in the direction of the cot, 'Not tired.'

Spock isn't moving, but Jim feels his skepticism, 'Jim, you are currently resting on the floor, and I find a significant correlation between this position and your fictitious statement.'

He bit his own tongue, dammit, 'Fine. I don't want to sleep, so, you can have the cot.'

'You require a sleep cycle more than I.'

'Spock, I said i don't want to sleep.' Jim says, exasperated, flattening the cane over his thighs with both hands grasping it, 'Take the damn cot.'

Spock takes a moment longer to answer him, 'You are unable to control your biological needs to such a degree their necessitate is forfeit. Your body will heed itself, Jim, there is little you will be able to do, but fall asleep.'

Jim glares through the dark, 'Fine, _if _ I fall asleep, I can do this hypothetical pass-out in the damn cot— wait, where's your cot, the one you went looking for.'

Spock's face is almost of the dark, and Jim can just make out his blanked face, and motionlessness— a reluctance, 'There was a comm waiting for you upon my arrival to the temporary medical facilities— Jim.'

And he sees Spock shift, chest and face lighting up in cool blues from the padd in his hand. He tells Jim it's from Bones, then he looks back up at him.

Jim loosens his grip on his cane, but doesn't raise it, 'He okay?'

Spock's eyes flicker, 'Affirmative.'

'Good, that's…good.' Jim sighs, a little bit of stress lightening as he slumps more against the cabinet, 'You gonna answer my question now?'

Spock stands there and stares at him, before he flicks the padd on standby so he's in the dark again, and slowly lowers it to his side, 'There were no remaining cots upon inquiry.'

Now, Jim stares at him for a bit, exhaustion giving the bird to any reasoning why this is a bad thing, and he blinks, 'Okay...then…you can take the cot. I'll be fine here.'

He rubs his fingers over the side of his head as Spock not-frowns at him, taking a step closer, 'That is not satisfactory, Jim.'

Here he pauses, brows drawing together, agitated, 'You are…distressed.'

Jim glances at the window reflecting flashing red and orange lights, 'Yeah, so?'

Glancing back up to Spock, who's a lot closer, 'You do not understand.'

'Then, I'll take the cot.' Jim watches Spock as Spock takes a knee to his side, resting his forearm over the knee.

They're eye level now and Jim can make out the brown of Spock's eyes in the hazy light, and the tight lines of his face, 'You do not understand because you are not functioning at your full potential. You are emotionally and physically distressed, Jim.'

Jim thinks about reaching out and holding his squared shoulder, but the lined tightness of his face stops him, 'That's below the belt, Spock.'

The tight lines of Spock's face increase, 'That was not my intention. Your emotional…chaos is… disturbing.'

'What.' Jim feels he should be offended, but the heaviness of his eyes, and the deep warmth of his body don't really let him care. He tries to straighten his back anyway.

Spock frowns at him, 'I am not conveying this correctly, it is— standard lacks the concepts of Vuhlkansu— and what this is— what I am experiencing is purely Vulcan.'

'So you're a Vulcan dick, what's new.' Jim says and slumps back against the cabinet, eyes closed and a deep breath.

'I have offended you.' he hears Spock say, and the rustle of clothes, 'I apologize.'

Jim takes another breath, feels the warm steel of the cane under his fingers, and the tightness of his dress pants, the numb swollen-ness of his ankle that he hasn't moved in awhile. He sees Pike standing in the middle of the smoking room again, red lights washing over the tables and blasted chairs. He sees Pike behind his desk sitting in his big comfy admiral's chair, the sun bright through the clear windows, and the brokenly cloudy sky shadows in that sun. He never thought he'd miss those meetings where Pike lectured him, he never thought he would. When Pike was grounded by 'fleet, he and Number One got a grand spankin' new house; three stories, made in the twenty first century, all aging wood, and dusty brick, and Jim'd only been there once. Once, when Number One threatened pike to get his son over for dinner. Jim feels his dry eyes wet, as he feels a hand at his shoulder.

'Jim.' his eyes blink blurry, and Spock kneels closer, over him, a red lit shadow, and Jim makes a noise meant to be an answer, 'I will assist you to the cot, your injury needs to be elevated.'

Jim glances at his foot, decides to move it sideways, and the next he's aware, he's being dragged to the cot, Spock's arm a tight brand around his lower back and hot against the thin fabric of his regulation blacks. Jim clenches his left fist, doesn't feel the weight of the cane, and tries to move his hand over Spock's chest in silent search, his head resting boneless over Spock's shoulder.

'Where's'is cane, Spock.' he mumbles, voice quiet, eyes slit-ted.

Spock pauses at his voice, but not from it; the cot is in front of them, 'I will bring it you once you are settled.'

He does as he says, shifting Jim down to sit in the cot, and Jim's face is at his chest as he looks to their right, because where's the cane, he needs it. Spock's hands smooth over his pliant shoulders, waiting for him to stay upright alone, before going back to the wall-window, and dipping to pick up the cane that he needs. Coming back to Jim, Jim reaches for it with soft thanks, and drops his hands to his lap, running his finger over the cane. He does this in the dark, because the hazy light of the window doesn't make it this far in, and he can't really see anything but fuzzy shapes, and the ends of his knees, but the tightness in his chest and the weight of his shoulders lightens with the cane in hand, and he doesn't wanna let that go. Maybe it's not healthy to feel like this, getting reassurance from a physical thing— no, he knows it's unhealthy, knows it can be unhealthy in extremes, but this isn't in extremes. But then, he lost his Captain. First Officers are supposed to care about their Captains, right. Or maybe he has it backward, and it's not healthy to not seek assurance. His fingers pick at the cane, finds a crack in the black wood, and he digs into it, splinter cutting into skin, and maybe he'd be better if he was in denial, that well-known stage of grief. He wouldn't be sitting here tired beyond exhaustion, he wouldn't be letting a sprained ankle stop him, he'd put on his dress greys and walk out of this damned building; he'd walk out head high, shoulders square, he'd be rounding up 'fleet and his own people, he'd be in the middle of the action, where he belongs.

Spock stands in front of him, hands hanging at his sides, 'Jim, I am going to assist you in lying back now; if that is acceptable.'

Jim opens his eyes as he lifts his heavy head, realizes his whole leg is totally numb, and tries to meet Spock's eyes in the dark. And then he falls sideways, umphing the breath from his lungs, jarring his head against the metal of the cot, 'This'll do it?'

More to himself than to spock, and lying over the blanket or pillow or whatever is under his head, he sees the blurred shapes of cabinets, and the bare edge of Spock's legs— and a hand flinched out from his sudden movement. Jim shifts on the cot, brings his body lying on its side, Pike's cane pushed out in front, hand curled around it. Sees Spock's hand fall, thinks the blanket smells like stale sweat as it scratches against his face. He's not tired, but his body says it is, and his eyes stare fixedly half-open in the dark. He should be tired, but the red flashes from the wall-window start him to attention and he races to pick up littered thoughts— they always start with the conference room, and veer towards it's intended consequences, and he feels himself bow under the vastness of what settles on his shoulders— what he will do in retribution— then he slowly slips away from thought until the next flash of red.

He blinks his air-dried eyes, feeling the scratchy fabric under him moving, sees Spock crouching in front of, steadily drawing it from under him— he blinks again, slowly, it's flat pillow. He wets his lips.

'…placing this under your ankle to elevate it. ' Spock's voice is even, monotone, like Spock assumes Jim's not really there to listen, or giving voice to his actions, directions, a comfort?

Jim's eyes slide to follow Spock standing, to taking steps to the other end of the cot, where he watches spock pause before just barely lifting his foot and sliding the pillow in. he stands there for a moment staring at Jim's foot before reaching into the dark and drawing out a distinct shape Jim doesn't know and putting it under the pillow under Jim's foot. Jim blinks, but it's sluggishly blinking, and when he sees again, Spock is highlighted by a red flash— he's by the wall-window. Jim frowns in the dark, moves his hand over the edge of the cot, he's rolling over and his hand is resounding, a slap on the floor in the small room.

'Should sleep, Spock.' he should be here on a cot, cots are for sleeping on, the cane digs into his chest and Jim squints up at spock, 'Come'ere.'

Spock turns halfway to him, but everything's all blurry and the vividness of the light with the darkness of Jim hurts his eyes, and he can't see his expression.

Jim thinks Spock just said something, so he slaps the floor again, because he knows Spock said something disagreeable, 'No. Come on.'

Jim stares bleary, longer, until his head falls against the metal of the cot and feels the feeble movement of his hand trying to slap again, the cot is plenty big enough for two— he knows from experience, get over here. Damn Vulcan. Jim mulls over himself, the cool of the metal against his forehead, and he hears clothes rustling in movement, closer to him.

'Very well, Jim.' softly, and Jim works to move his head, managing to shift sideways and pinch his ear against the metal to see Spock coming into the dark, away from the window, 'Indeed, the cot may feasibly fit two.'

He thinks he doesn't know what's going, because their conversation is not what their conversation was. He tries to follow Spock's movement, but stops because his shoulders get in the way as Spock comes to his back. Jim's eyes close and he hears Spock, doesn't feel his weight shifting from him lying down yet, just the noise of clothes being moved— and then, soon, he feels his weight shifting back as Spock moves into the cot behind him, the warmth of his body already bleeding. Jim pushes up from his rolled over position, off of the cane, inhaling deeply, leaning back into the warmth, making heavy his eyes and body, slowing his thoughts. He hears Spock murmur, and pushes back in response, feels Spock's warm hand at his upper arm, and the slow slid of Spock's legs mirror his own. Maybe his eyes are closed now, and he feels the press of Spock's shoulder against his back, and he frowns, trying to move, trying to turn over and see Spock. It's uncomfortable lying half off a cot; he's gotten crinks all over when he does that. He thinks he tells Spock this, pushing his hand forward over Spock, finds his chest, scratches at it, still trying to turn around, and this is really uncomfortable. Spock's hand clamp over his wondering one, and he mummers again, but— Jim is…he thinks Spock was agreeing with him so he stops, rolling back over, and this time Spock's shoulder isn't pushing into his shoulder blades.

Jim feels for pike's cane, tucked now against his chest, digging into his bent thighs and sighs into the hard plastic of the cot, the often redding of the room fading into short night.

He's frozen awake once, not jerked awake, a cold calm of dead fear sweating into wakefulness in the grey-yellow of pre-dawn, hands loose under Pike's cane, dull pain from his ankle sharpening him awake, eyes flickering wide, pulse just beginning to quicken. but he doesn't move; once he realizes he's in a 'fleet building and nothing is wrong, nothing sudden, he rests more heavily on the cot under him, back into the body behind him. He stiffens again, trying to glance back at Spock, whose arm is curled around him, legs slotted into place behind his. He turns his head back, blinking into the room, the fuzzy remembering of Spock coming to share the cot with him, too fuzzy.

'Jim,' Jim stiffens again, only Spock's sleep burred voice at his ear tells him he's awake, 'Everything is well, everything is…okay, rest.'

Jim breathes for moments, his heartbeat slows, his eyes heavy. And his vivid wakefulness blurs into the lightened dark; not before he feels Spock shift behind him and pull something over them, arm coming to rest over it and him, tighter than it was.

He really wakes up when the blue of the sky tints the window the lightest blue, bringing the light color palette of the room into its lightest glory, and he blinks open, feels the uncomfortable digging of the cane under— there's a short blanket over him, and he shifts under it picking at it, realizes it's someone's dress grey's as he sits up, flopping it around his waist. He lifts it up, cane rolling against his thigh on the cot as he stretches it out, sleeve to sleeve, feeling the warmth of sleep leave him, and clinging to the dress coat. He drops it to his lap, suddenly realizing Spock isn't on the cot with him. He runs his hand over Spock's side, and it's cold. He thinks, Spock forgot his dress coat.

Pushing the dress coat off him, he slides his feet to the ground, grunting when his ankle moves the wrong way, holding his breath, head in hands, is not the way to deal with the pain but it gets him to a clear head fast enough. He's gonna try to stand, and he does, feeling the heat of his face, and his puffed out cheeks, as his vision greys out for a breath until he stands stilted, but straight. He glances around, sees the food replicator is in standby mode, but he doesn't have a stomach for anything right now, when as he looks towards the window, yesterday crawls corpses through his mind. He scowls, limping to the window, hand reaching out a steadying support on the cabinet he'd slid down last night, and looks over the city, down at the crawl of emergency crew still active from hours ago. He blinks at the thought, because he doesn't know what hour it is. He pauses before calling out to the building's AI, which may not be active. It is, and he asks for screen-chrono over the window, and it appears seconds later— people downstairs have been active for six hours straight. A time period he spent passed out. Better spent doing things more important. He brings his fist down on the cabinet he leans on, head low, until he turns from the window, limps back towards the cot, spots the padd forgotten on the counter next to the cot.

He picks it up, leaning against the counter, when he sees the unanswered messages icon softly blinking up at him. He brings his fingers gently over the icon, sliding them across the screen to unlock it, and— he squeezes his eyes, grip tightening on the padd— the first handful are from Number One. This time he feels the wet of his tears on his face, this time he doesn't have to evade himself because a comm goes off in the background starting him towards it before he even realizes he's dropped the padd on the cot.

He looks around, weeping forgotten, as he spots the comm, flips it open with a hoarseness, 'Yeah?'


End file.
